Some words occupy spaces only they can fill. Those words are like surviving twins; they are incomplete pairs that cannot be repaired, no matter how much energy is expended to that end. One such word is blood. Oh, one might find thesauri that suggest synonyms, but the supposed synonyms they offer do not pass muster. Neither hemoglobin nor plasma nor sanguine fluid nor the slang form, claret, do justice to blood. Blood, alone, accomplishes the definitive task for the English language. And that is fine. In fact, the singularity of an adequate word to describe the necessary fluid of life is more than fine; it is right and just. Here, of course, I’m referring only to the red liquid pumped by the heart.
There are other uses of the word “blood,” you know.
‘He’s a blood relative.’ ‘That man is hot-blooded.’ ‘Charles Manson was a cold-blooded killer.’ You know them. Those uses of the word attempt to borrow the significance and consequence of ‘blood.’
Many writers attempt to conjure blood through similes and metaphors, but none of their attempts endangers the superiority of that one word.